We need more engineers. Go forth and study engineering for the future of the nation. Math and engineering are the keys to maintaining our place in the world and keeping the Chinese, and a few others, at bay.

That is the urging of our political class, whether they are appointed public officials or elected politicians; or whether they are members of the thinking and writing class. Taken collectively, they might be called “the exhortationists.”

But there is a problem: We do not treat engineers very nicely — at least not those who are federal employees or contractors. The very politicians who lead in exhorting our young to become engineers are those who treat engineers as disposable workers.

The government starts many projects and finishes few. A change of administration, a shortage of money, or some other excuse and the government shelves the project.

The impact on engineers is devastating. They have often relocated their families to the site of the project and — wham! — it is canceled.

It is not only that this rough treatment has a huge impact on families – and engineers are not that well-paid (median income is $80,000, and petroleum engineers are the highest-paid) – but also the psychological damage is considerable.

Engineering a new project is exciting but also demanding. Men and women throw themselves into what is a giant creative undertaking, eating up years of lives, demanding the most extreme effort. It is shattering when there is a sudden political decision to cancel a project.

To look at a bridge or a locomotive and say, “I built that,” “I made a difference,” is much of the engineer’s reward. Marc Goldsmith, a fourth-generation engineer, who has worked on 16 projects in nuclear power which have been canceled, says that many engineers get so frustrated they leave the profession and go into law or finance, and never face a logarithm again. He says the government treats highly educated engineers like day laborers: expendable.

Goldsmith, a former president of the American Society of Mechanical Engineers, says the heartbreak of a canceled project to the engineers is terrible and destructive of the can-do engineering culture.

The hundreds of engineers involved in a big engineering project do not do their job just for the money, but for the satisfaction that they solved a problem and made a thing that worked, whether it was a mega-passenger aircraft, a spindly skyscraper or a flood-control gate.

We now live in a world of project ghosts, where public policy (politics) has said “go,” and has said later, with the same passion, “abandon.”

Clarence L. “Kelly” Johnson, the genius founder of the Lockheed secret division of engineers, dubbed Skunk Works, in Burbank, Calif., told me before he died in 1990 that some of the starts-and-stops and abrupt cancellations of military projects made him sick. The Skunk Works, which brought us such legends as the U-2 and the SR-71, to name a few, was also instructed by the government to eradicate any trace of other projects that were far along. “Not only were they canceled, but they had to be expunged,” he told me.

Nuclear has been especially hard hit by government policy perfidy. In today’s shame roster, Yucca Mountain, the nuclear waste repository and the pride of thousands of engineers, was abandoned by the incoming Obama administration in a deal with Harry Reid, the Democratic senator from Nevada and Senate majority leader. Good-bye to $15 billion in taxpayer money; good-bye to a nuclear waste option; and goodbye to all that intricate engineering inside a mountain.

Now the administration is taking its policy sledgehammer to another engineering project: one it supported until it didn’t support it anymore. It is trying to end the program to build a plant to blend surplus weapons-grade plutonium with uranium and burn it up in reactors as uranium oxide, or MOX, as it is known.

The contractor – a consortium of Chicago Bridge & Iron Company and Areva, the French firm – says the plant is 67-percent complete and employs 300 engineers, out of a total workforce of some 1,800, at the Department of Energy site near Aiken, S.C. Now this big engineering project, which is another way of dealing with nuclear waste, is in the government’s sights. — For the InsideSources news service

If you count a very young — aged 17 — reporter crawling around the construction of the Kariba hydroelectric dam on the Zambezi River between Northern Rhodesia and Southern Rhodesia, now Zambia and Zimbabwe, I’ve been writing about the electric business for a very long time. Even if you start when I joined McGraw-Hill in 1970, or when I founded The Energy Daily in 1973, it still amounts to a long time.

Yet, I think the electric utility business is facing greater challenges today than it has faced in all the time that I’ve been recording its ups and downs. New technologies and new players are encroaching on the utility space – often quicker than the established players realize.

That’s why I’ve joined forces with Public Utilities Fortnightly to examine the challenges in this vital industry, and to explore ways forward.

To do this, I and the talented staff at PUF are putting together a conference with a faculty of the best thinkers in the industry and those who serve it. A blue-ribbon group, if you will. The conference will take place, appropriately I feel, in Scottsdale, AZ on November 17 and 18, concluding with a tour of one of Arizona Public Service Company’s impressive solar installations.

So far, we have secured these remarkable speakers:

Irwin Stelzer, founder of National Economic Research Associates, and a seminal thinker and consultant to the industry for many decades. Stelzer has branched out to advise such players as Google, Heathrow Airport and two British prime ministers. He has often been at the right hand of Rupert Murdoch, the world’s most successful media entrepreneur.

Steven Mitnick, author of “Lines Down: How We Pay, Use, Value Grid Electricity Amid the Storm,” which has been called “an invaluable guide to understanding the value of electricity and reliability.” Mitnick has had hands-on experience running a transmission company and advising the governor of New York.

When I worry about the utility industry, it’s because I’m haunted by what has happened to my own beloved newspaper industry, which has been irreparably damaged by not responding fast enough to new technologies; or by the sad fate of the Western Union Company, which had a grip on long-distance communications that looked as though it would last for centuries, but which was brought low by the Internet.

The utilities, to my mind, face the same challenges that the health​ care​ system does: if the healthy leave the insurance plans, the sick will pay much more. If the utilities allow their best customers to abandon them, the rest will pay much more for the poles and wires that link together modern society.

If we don’t do this transformation right, we’ll end up with an electric system more like Amtrak than the proud passenger railroads of yore.

I hope you’ll accept my heartfelt request to come to Arizona with as many of your colleagues as can be spared. The future is staring at us now. And are we, as Shakespeare said, to take this tide “at the flood which leads on to victory?”

The alternative, I fear, is to be making silent movies after the talkies have been invented.

On Feb. 3, 1960 in Cape Town, British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan shook up what was still the British Empire in Africa by telling the Parliament of South Africa that “the wind of change is blowing through this continent.”

His remarks weren’t well received by those who that thought it was premature, and that Britain would rule much of Africa for generations. The British ruling class in Africa – the established order — was shaken.

But Macmillan’s speech was, in fact, a tacit recognition of the inevitable. It was the signaling of a brave new world in which Britain would grant independence to countries from Nigeria to Botswana and Kenya to Malawi. Britain would not attempt to hold the Empire together. His speech was seminal, in that Britain had signaled that things would never ever be the same.

To me, the appearance of investor and entrepreneur Elon Musk at the Edison Electric Institute’s annual convention in New Orleans was a “wind of change” moment for the august electric utility. It was a signal that the industry was coming to terms, or trying to come to terms, with new forces that are challenging it as a business proposition in a way that it hasn’t been challenged in a history of more than 100 years.

But whereas Britain could swallow its pride and start a withdrawal from its former possessions, the electric industry faces quite a different challenge: How can it serve its customers and honor its compact with them when people like Musk, who is the non-executive chairman of the aggressive company SolarCity, and a passionate advocate of solar electricity, and Google are moving into the electric space?

At EEI’s annual convention, Musk didn’t tell his audience what he thought would happen to the utilities as their best customers opted to leave the grid, or to rely on it only in emergencies, while insisting that they should be allowed to sell their own excess generation back to the grid. Musk also didn’t venture an opinion on the future of the grid — and his interlocutor, Ted Craver, chairman and CEO of Rosemead, Calif.-based Edison International, didn’t press him.

Instead Musk talked glowingly about the electrification of transportation, implying — but not saying outright — that the electric pie would grow with new technologies like his Tesla Motors’ electric car.

The CEOs of EEI’s board were ready for the press by the time they held a briefing a day after Musk’s opening appearance. They spoke of “meeting the challenges as we have always met the challenges” and of “evolving” with the new realities. Gone from recent EEI annual meetings was CEO talk of their business model being “broken.”

The great dark cloud hanging over the industry is that of social justice. As the move to renewables becomes a flood, enthusiastically endorsed by such disparate groups as the Tea Party and environmentalists, the Christian right and morally superior homeowners, and companies like SolarCity and First Solar, the poor may have difficulty keeping their heads above water.

The grid, the lifeline of U.S. social cohesion, remains at threat. Utilities are jumping into the solar business, but they have yet to reveal how selling or leasing rooftop units — as the Southern Company is about to do in Georgia — is going to save the grid, or how the poor and city dwellers are going to be saved from having to pay more and more for the grid while suburban fat cats enjoy their sense that they’re saving the planet.

My sense is that in 10 years, things will look worse than they do today; that an ill wind of change will have reduced some utilities to the pitiful state of Amtrak — a transportation necessity that has gobbled up public money but hasn’t restored the glory days of rail travel.

People like myself — I live in an apartment building — have reason to fear the coming solar electric world, for we will be left out in the cold. The sun will not be shining on those of us who still need the grid. It needs to be defended. — This column was previously published in Public Utilities Fortnightly.

Time was when New York dominated the collective and individual efforts of the electric utility industry. When the Edison Electric Institute (EEI) was founded in 1933, there was no question but that it would be located in New York. Likewise the Atomic Industrial Forum, which has morphed into the Nuclear Energy Institute, was founded there in 1952.

At least one large utility, American Electric Power, had its headquarters on Wall Street. In the early 1970s, I would travel from Washington to New York to interview AEP’s legendary chairman, Donald C. Cook. He believed in coal, and as the one-and-only fuel for electric generation. So much so that he kept a large piece of it on his desk. It was big and shiny and luminously black. In a twist of irony, Cook is remembered by his company through its only nuclear plant being named after him.

Electric utilities believed they had to be in New York because that is where they had raised their money — and they had needed to raise enormous quantities of money from the time of the first power plant.

Many myths attended the raising of capital. One was that to keep up with the blistering pace of electric demand, 7.5 percent per year at the end of the 1960s and the beginning the 1970s, utilities would drain the capital markets; take all the available money. It was said that Britain could not privatize the Central Electricity Generating Board because there was not enough liquidity in the London market to afford such a giant offering. (In reality, the public offering was oversubscribed when it was listed by Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher.)

It was clear by the 1970s, even before the energy crisis in the winter of 1973, that the U.S. government was going to be a bigger player in the future of the industry than the banks and investment houses. So gradually the trade associations moved to Washington, and the utilities moved their headquarters back into their service territories.

Washington was becoming all-important. It probably started with the National Environmental Policy Act of 1969, which was interpreted by the courts as having wide application. This was a lesson learned by the nuclear industry when it claimed exemption from NEPA under the Atomic Energy Act of 1954. No way, said the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit. Afterward, the electric power industry realized that it had to be pro-active with legislation; it had to be in Washington and it had to lobby — and lobby hard.

The result has been that EEI, particularly under its well-liked president Tom Kuhn, has become one of the most effective trade association lobbying Congress. Its role was to prevent damaging legislation, to educate members of Congress, and to divert campaign funds to those who saw things its way.

Gradually, the whole industry came to look to Washington for redress; to ask for favors and stall damaging legislation. Its last great victory was in preserving dividends — so important to utility stockholders — from the taxman.

Now the industry is in a new crisis; a crisis that has arisen not because of policy, but of technology. Call it “the solar onslaught.”

The industry is fighting for its identity, its profitability, and its traditional role as the monopoly supplier of electricity. Solar rooftop installations are fraying the very fabric of the utilities and their business models and, for the first time in a long time, the powerful lobby that is EEI cannot help.

This is not a battle which will be fought in Washington. This is a state issue, and there are strange alliances ranged against the traditional utilities: the Tea Party with the greens, evangelicals with politically-correct Democrats.

Sadly, it is a battle in which the odds — as in journalism and telephony — are on the side of the new. Disruptive technology is at the gate. When rooftop solar is aligned with a really serviceable battery (the new Tesla offerings do not do the job yet), the utilities will feel like the makers of silent movies when the talkies came along.

The great star, Rudolph Valentino, did not survive the new technology. What of today’s utilities? — This column was previously published in Public Utilities Fortnightly.

The nation is awash in natural gas and oil. This did not just happen: It is the result of a long and fruitful collaboration between the government and private industry to develop advanced hydraulic fracturing. But one corporation and one man stand out: Mitchell Energy and its late visionary founder, George Phydias Mitchell.

Whenever I point this out I get a flood of mail, often abusive, claiming that modern fracking was a natural development of the traditional stimulation techniques used in the oil patch for many decades.

I love the story of fracking because it proves a lot of truths about how things get done.

First, the private sector needed to realize there were better ways of doing things, and that scientific resources in seismic and mapping would be essential. They also needed a better drill bit.

Enter Sandia National Laboratory. Government support for advanced drilling and extraction began in 1976 and continued through the 1980s and 1990s. Commercial exploitation began in the 1990s and exploded a decade later.

Previous government ideas about fracking were a little crazy and featured huge underground explosions using nuclear devices. Yes, just a little bomb was what was proposed. There were at least two government programs aimed at nuclear stimulation of natural gas in the 1950s and 1960s: One was called Wagon Wheel and the other, Gasbuggy.

Back in those days, nuclear was popular and people wanted it to have civilian uses of all kinds, possibly as an expiation for the bomb. Anyway nuclear gas stimulation ran into an immutable problem: the gas thus produced was radioactive. Not the kind of blue flame you want on your stovetop.

The nuclear enthusiasts, led by the congressional Joint Committee on Atomic Energy and the Atomic Energy Commission withdrew. Still, many were convinced that there would be a fix if the programs would just be allowed to continue. These programs, well, bombed. There were contractors, but no private partners.

Another tale of the government going it alone in energy had a dismal end. It was a program at Los Alamos National Laboratory to produce geothermal steam in a new way. The idea was scientifically sound. Los Alamos sits on an extinct volcano and deep in the earth there are what are known, rather unscientifically, as “hot rocks.” The plan was to drill into these heated formations, pour in some water and, wham, there would be steam aplenty to drive turbines on the surface.

This program was the brainchild of Los Alamos, and I crawled over the site in the early days. Enthusiasm was abundant. It seemed to be an elegant addition to the geothermal resource base. However, there was too much government, in the form of the national lab, and not enough input from commercial geothermal operators.

After 17 years, the government funding was threatened, and I was invited to what turned out to be the burial for the project.

Finally, the government people met their commercial opposites and it didn’t go well. The scientists knew, down to the smallest microbe, life down the well. They had oodles of data but it was the wrong data. In commercial geothermal, the cardinal question is the projected life of the reservoir. Sadly, Los Alamos had not kept records from which that could be calculated. The scientists had not thought of that necessity.

Then there were questions about what to do with the brine that would be a pollution problem when discharged from the turbine on the surface of the fragile high desert. There will be no brine problem, said Los Alamos. “We’ll not bring the waste water to the surface. We’ll use a heat exchanger ,and the brine will dissipate down the well.” The commercial operators said, “That won’t work. Your temperatures are not hot enough to use a heat exchanger. You’ll have to bring the steam to the surface and deal with it there after it comes out of the turbine. We’ve tried heat exchangers down geothermal wells and the heat degradation is too great. No deal.”

This is tale a tale of huge success and dismal failure, and it has a moral: Public-private partnerships can work. The government, on its own, gets off track and screws up with our money. But private industry needs the government to shoulder the risk and provide its huge resources of capital and science to further the public interest. — ​This column was previously published in Public Utilities Fortnightly.

I love Donald Trump because he has trashed New York, Atlantic City and Los Angeles with tasteless structures.

I love Donald Trump because he lives in a parallel universe.

I love Donald Trump because he is an alien.

I love Donald Trump because he makes all other political grotesques look normal.

I love Donald Trump because he has the audacity to think he should be president.

I love Donald Trump because he loves Donald Trump.

It is the sheer ego of the man that overwhelms. Not since William Shakespeare created Malvolio in “Twelfth Night” has there been such a human edifice of self-adulation. Malvolio, one of Shakespeare’s enduring characters, has — as Trump would have us believe of himself — moral standards. But he has arrogance as high as the Trump Tower on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, and he is lambasted for being full of self-love.

Malvolio is a character in a comedy written in 1601. To measure The Donald, we must do so against the towering clowns of today.

First, let us take a look at Boris Johnson. He is painted in broad brushstrokes in British politics. He has been in many predicaments, from infidelity to just recently infuriating London’s famous taxi drivers by swearing at them – and from atop his bicycle, no less.

But Boris has also been a successful mayor of London (He saved the double-decker buses. Thank you.) and a vigorous performer in the House of Commons. And he is an odds-on favorite for Conservative prime minister if David Cameron should falter.

Boris is a classicist with a colossal ego, who hints that he is comparable to Pericles, the great statesman, orator, patron of the arts and general during the Golden Age of Athens from 460-429 B.C. He has a plaster cast of Pericles in his office, and has even compared London to Athens. One suspects Trump has a statue of himself in his office for religious purposes.

How about Sarah Palin? We’re getting warmer. She clubs halibut, decapitates turkeys (Watch out, Donald!) and somehow convinced some Republican kingmakers that she was of presidential timber. Like Trump, she was more of an entertainment on television than a serious politician — although we were getting close and if voters had not intervened, we might have had Palin a heartbeat away from the presidency.

When it comes to naked love of self, Trump is up there with the more extreme Roman emperors. Think Nero, who declared himself a god. But that might be a demotion for Trump.

You have got to love a man who can bring Iran into the fold in a day, humble China, befriend Vladimir Putin and make America “great again.” One wonders if he can do it all in six days.

I love Trump because Malvolio’s words fit, “Be not afraid of greatness: Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ’em.”

I may have a faded English accent, but I am a true blue American — and I have been for five decades. I do not think that everything that comes across Atlantic from Britain ought to be adopted here.

I do not believe that there is any virtue in driving on the other side of the road. And I do not believe that every British television program is unassailably wonderful.

While I think that the House of Commons is a fabulous entertainment, but it is not necessarily the best way to govern the United Kingdom, particularly in this time of nationalist stress. I have lived in London, but I do not yearn to take up residence there again.

However, there is one feature of British life that I think would benefit the United States substantially: the introduction of an honors system to reward exemplary people in our society.

What titles we have in the United States are clung to. Former senators still call themselves senator; governors, governor; and ambassadors, ambassador. A few Ph.Ds persist in calling themselves Dr., and most people would like to have a title other than Mr., or Ms. in front of their name. Even firmly republican countries in Europe, like France and Italy, have clung to their aristocratic titles.

Well, we do not want an aristocracy here, but it would be grand if we could single out contributions to our well-being with a nifty title. Various eminent Americans have been awarded honorary titles, but they can not use them. What is the point of a title, if you can not call a restaurant and say, “Sir John Doe, here. I would like a table by the window.”

Here are some exceptional people who I would make honorary knights or dames:

Arise, Sir Brian Lamb, creator of C-SPAN and a massive contributor to television and the understanding of American politics.

Arise, Sir David Bell, a dedicated general practitioner, who treats victims of Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, also known as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, in the northwest corner of New York state. Bell has tended indigent patients since the disease broke out in the village of Lyndonville, NY, in 1985.

Arise, Sir Joe Madison (The Black Eagle), activist and broadcaster, who has championed the cause of justice for African-Americans and has fought modern slavery in Africa.

Arise, Dame Marin Alsop, music director of the Baltimore Symphony, who is a visionary conductor and a great contributor to the public good through her promotion of American music and classical music, her mentorship to young musicians, and her founding of OrchKids, a music education program for inner city Baltimore children.

Much of the British system of honorary titles should be left in Britain. Twice every year, on the Queen’s birthday and at New Year, a list of new honorees is published, and long-serving but unrecognized civil servants and military personnel hope to be on the list. The types of honors include: Knights and Dames, The Order of the Bath, Order of St. Michel and St. George, Order of the Companions Honor, and Orders of the British Empire. Just in case you are getting confused, these honors do not include the ancient titles of duke, marquess, earl or lord. But the monarch does mint a title now an again, like Her Highness Duchess of Cambridge, conferred on Prince William’s wife, Kate.

No, you have to keep the honorary title simple: knight or dame, awarded for exemplary achievement or service. On my honors list I would include distinguished people in the arts and sciences, educators, entrepreneurs and inventors, humanitarians, retired politicians (provided they promise not to run for office again). I think we should have Sir Bob Dole, Lady Olympia Snowe, and, if she were alive today, Lady Barbara Jordan.

On my watch list for recognition are Warren Buffett, Elon Musk, Wynton Marsalis, and Dean Kamen. If you would want to recognize someone in journalism, Sir Llewellyn King has a nice ring.

You and I live in houses, apartments, coops and condos, and flats. The super-rich — or is it the mega-rich or the ultra-rich? — live in “residences.” Well, they own them and sometimes they take up residence in one of their homes, so maybe the name is appropriate. In real estate speak, if it costs north of $5 million, it is a residence.

I get this not from the Oxford English Dictionary, but from the advertisements in The New York Times for living space in New York City. The city is one of a few places where the incalculably rich want to have a residence. And they shell out big bucks — bucks beyond the dreams of common avarice — to get a pad there.

Other cities where the rich feel at home are London, Monaco and Dubai. There is God Almighty-expensive real estate in Hong Kong and Mumbai (the world’s most expensive), but not all the new billionaires want to live there. They want the best of the West.

The real estate rush comes from the new billionaires. Whereas it was once the super-rich of Europe, known as Eurotrash, who sought the marble and concierge life in Manhattan towers, it is now the unfathomably rich from China, India and Russia who have ushered in a new Gilded Age with more wealth than Americans of the Gilded Age before World War I ever could have dreamed as they journeyed between Fifth or Park avenues and Newport, RI. Call them “Globotrash” — and watch them push up prices for everyone, as real estate moguls buy old buildings in Manhattan and demolish them to build luxury towers that rise higher than 90 floors.

Central London has gone, as far as ordinary Londoners are concerned. They have to commute further and further to work in the neighborhoods where they once lived. New York City is not much better: the Globotrash push out the middle class and the poor.

The skyline of Manhattan tells this new Gilded Age story: booming construction of spindly glass towers, so thin they seem even higher than their very real height.

Look in awe at 432 Park Avenue, the luxury condo which stands at 1,396 feet, slightly taller than One World Trade Center. Or the stunning new residence, One57: It rises to 90 floors with prices from a paltry $6 million for a one-bedroom to a penthouse for a god at $94 million. Now, we are talking residence.

The principal selling point for these pieces of fanciful engineering is that you get a view of Central Park. It is all, apparently about, privacy and views. Well, Central Park is nice to look at, but it is not one of the wonders of the world.

As for privacy, wait a minute. While you might want to take in the views of Manhattan as you soak in one of the grand bathrooms’ Carrara marble tubs, and then emerge in the buff to get another look at the views, for which you have paid so extravagantly, you had better watch out. I hear the paparazzi are getting camera-equipped drones. You see the park, and their cameras see you.

One57 has some of the best blue-veined marble ever quarried in Italy. In fact, there is so much of it in the building that an imaginative lawyer might be able to claim that it is a territorial extension of Italy. A part of Italy on Manhattan Island, Mamma mia!

And as the Globotrash are not known for their kitchen skills, it will be again up to the imagination of New York City to get another iconic Italian product, pizza, up there.

Seventy years ago, we celebrated the end of World War II in Europe. That celebration is not the first memory of my childhood, but it is one of the clearest.

I was a five-year-old boy in Cape Town, South Africa, proudly displaying a paper Union Jack, the familiar British flag, and watching the victory parade. I often wonder where the flags came from – before offset printing and photocopying – in time for the parade. Someone knew victory was at hand.

There was a palpable, universal happiness – though more subdued, I am told, than the outbursts which greeted the end of World War I. For me, that was the best parade ever. It was wonderful to see people grabbing each other, doing little impulsive jigs in the street.

Marching in the parade was the handsomest man I had ever seen, or have seen since: my father in his best Royal South African Navy uniform of a chief petty officer, engine room. My father was a wonderful man in many ways. He was not lettered, but extremely kind and dutiful, and loved for those things — not for being handsome. But I tell you, that day he was handsome.

It was not until 1998 that Tom Brokaw called them “The Greatest Generation,” in a book of that name. Maybe all who go to war are the greatest generation. Maybe, every father who survives is unbearably handsome to someone.

Memorial Day is upon us and our veterans — maybe veterans everywhere — will be briefly remembered. The Greatest Generation was, perhaps, the last time a generation was defined by its sense of duty. That was true of the men and women who peopled my young life.

My father sold our home and few possessions, in what was then Southern Rhodesia, to serve. He was turned down for the British army in Rhodesia because an arm he had once broken had not mended properly. He had heard that the Royal South African Navy would be more tolerant. His acceptance by the navy was not a certainty, and we had no money. But we made the long, hot, six-day journey to South Africa by train to no known future; my father, mother, brother and myself, all going off to war because that is what was done. That is what the men of the Greatest Generation did because it was your duty to serve.

My father was not alone. I grew up hearing other stories of how people had gone to great lengths to serve and, having gotten into the armed services, how they did everything they could to get into the fight, not to serve at a distance in a British dominion, as South Africa then was. That is how South African pilots came to serve in the Battle of Britain.

In those days, patriotism was organic here in the United States and around the globe. Not every last man of military age was a patriot, but most were. It was the deep-seated culture.

When it was over, those who survived WWII were welcomed home with celebrations, appreciation and reverence. Alas the warriors from more recent wars, Korea, Vietnam, Kuwait, Afghanistan, Iraq and lesser conflicts, have come home to cold comfort. No parades, no five-year-olds with flags — and little place in the tapestry of the national memory. No recognition of their inalienable right to honor.

War is not everyone’s business anymore. Vietnam was the first war where patriotism was not part of the equation. Today, with a professional military, it is not the business of the armchair patriots with their slogans, urging others to take up arms.

When the World War II Memorial opened on the Mall in Washington in April 2004, I went there. I did not like it, architecturally; I was disappointed. But then men with canes and in wheelchairs began arriving, smiling and shedding occasional tears. It was important and moving to them, those handsome men. My father would have loved it; now, I like it well. Memorial Day weekend is at hand.

I was in Baltimore the last time it burned. That was back in April 1968, after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. Washington also burned at that time.

There was something surreal about the mood of the riots in both cities. The anger from African-American rioters seemed to be directed wholly against property.

I walked among the rioters, up 14th Street to the U Street Corridor, the commercial hub of the Shaw area of Washington. Later that day, I drove around Baltimore. They seemed to me to be an uncommonly respectful pair of riots.

In Washington, young African-American men directed me where to go safely; one looter, coming out of a shop on 14th and F Street, asked me if I needed anything, as though he were the proprietor.

Over the decades, I have wondered about those riots. I think they were indeed riots of anger as well as sorrow. King, the great civil rights leader, had been murdered, and already people knew there would not be another like him.

For days I drove around Baltimore, where I lived at the time, and Washington, where troops were patrolling and curfews were in place. With a large “PRESS” sign taped on my car’s windshield, I was allowed to drive around both cities, and I watched them come to grips with reality. A Washington Post writer described how a white motorist and a black motorist had waved each other through an intersection, both feeling they were doing something significant.

But Washington is not Baltimore. And, at that time, Baltimore was as segregated as any Southern city.

The proprietor of a bar near The Baltimore News-American, the Hearst newspaper where I worked, would shoo away blacks with this lie, “This is a private club and I can’t serve you, but I can sell you a bottle to go.”

I wanted to challenge this, and urged a black friend on the newspaper, Lee Lassiter, to come with me and make a stand. He averred, not because he was lacking in courage, but because he was fighting another battle over bars. Lassiter and other activists were trying to restrict the spread of cheap bars in the ghetto, where licenses were indiscriminately issued by a white board to white businessmen.

Unlike Washington which, in some ways, was a more secure community and where there was certain amount of integration, the whites in Baltimore took little interest in the blacks. There was no sense that they shared a city.

Baltimore’s politics were white; its sensibilities were white; and it was comfortably assumed that in the profusion of row houses, there were happy blacks, living a happy parallel life — although that term was not used. Not true then, and not true now.

This is a subjective comment, but I have always felt there is a kind of special dejection in the Baltimore ghetto.

While there was manufacturing, steel and shipbuilding and a car plant in Baltimore, guaranteeing good union jobs, there were pockets of prosperity. As these jobs faded in Baltimore, and other American cities, so did the hope for a route to the middle class for those in the ghetto.

Baltimore’s police – who probably felt the affect in their families, if not in their own aspirations, of the end of industrial prosperity — took out their frustrations on those who had even minor malefactions.

Men in uniform easily degenerate into bullies. I saw this in London. When a policeman and a suspect face off, after the policeman is sure that he is not facing an ambush, he has absolute power over the suspect. It is an intrinsically ugly moment: when the handcuffs click, justice and liberty are at bay. Later in court, or through a civilian review, those things may be re-established. But when the suspect is under lock and key, the police power is absolute — and it is absolutely corrupting.

Police officers go over the line often, and I have seen this all over the world. Race worsens things, but it is not a necessary ingredient.

It is sad for me that, 47 years later, Baltimore should have been torched by a mob. It is sad, too, that things in the row houses of Baltimore are as bad as ever, and that the mob is still the only voice black Baltimoreans think they have.

White House Chronicle on Social

There is disquiet in the soul of America. It has been expressed night after night on the streets of more than 100 towns and cities. That number of urban sites, with all those tens of thousands of people, are a cry from the hurting heart of America — yes, over the death of George Floyd, […]

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Snapshots. That’s what we have of the United States as we emerge tentative and fraught from lockdown. We don’t have the whole picture, just snapshots of this and that. Some of the snapshots are encouraging: The air is clearer, crime is down and a collective spirit is apparent in many places. Others are more disturbing: […]

A study envisioning how societies might address the complexities of the COVID-19 pandemic, undertaken by more than 70 leaders in innovation from around the world, is out. It is the largest, nongovernmental study on the virus, and it paints a picture of a world recalibrated by it — with a heavy dependence on data in […]